Feeding the Chickens

The misty blush of dawn

fills my cup

with the saffron embrace of awakening.

The crooning and crowing of roosters

gently tugs at my eyelids,

singing the chorus of my childhood.


I put on the oversized boots,

their folding rubber squeaking

with every clunking step.

I go outside.

My hand shields my eyes

as I watch the puff of my breath

reflect the sunrise

in a plume of ivory vapor.


I can smell the moistened soil and grass

where the chickens scratch their feet.

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